Less Than Perfect
by Q.E.D. 221B
Summary: Mycroft is not as well off and in control as people think. A recent widower, he is struggling to raise his sons by himself, cope with his & their grief and maintain the illusion that all is well so to keep his job safe. And the trouble's only starting M/L
1. Chapter 1

A lot of things happened to Mycroft when he was seventeen. He graduated from Eton, he got accepted into Oxford, he met his wife - those were the highlights of his year, the latter more-so by far. In fact, the only _good_ thing to happen to him at seventeen was his first meeting his wife.

Graduating from Eton hadn't been all that brilliant. His parents hadn't been particularly impressed. It's not like he did it a couple years early, like Sherrinford had, or in spite of all the troubles Sherlock seemed to encounter. In comparison to his brothers, Mycroft's school years were no more impressive than your next garden-range gifted student, and his parents saw no reason to treat it as if it were anything more.

They were similarly unmoved by his being excepted into Oxford. Honestly, it would have been a shock and quite the embarrassment if he hadn't been. And really, it wasn't anything all that special, that is to say, Sherrinford was just 15 when he got in. They were also a bit distracted at the time, trying to fit Sherlock into his newest school after the regrettable incident with the last one's chemistry lab.

As such, they hadn't had the time to drive him up to Oxford themselves, and really - they were busy people, Mycroft wasn't a baby and they'd already learned from doing it with Sherrinford that there wasn't all that much for them to do other than provide a lift, so why take a day off work when they can just pay someone to do it for them?

Mycroft steadfastly hid how hurt he was by their decision to have one of mother's driver's take him up as an alternative, choosing instead to be grateful for the pat on the shoulder and peck on the cheek he got from them as they headed off to work.

Unfortunately, things didn't get all that much better for him once he finally did get to Oxford. He was living in the college, like most of the other first year undergrads, but none of them seemed to take all that much of a liking to him. That's not to say they were horrible to him, in fact, there was no outright hostility directed towards him at all. It's just they weren't all that welcoming either.

Under normal circumstances, Mycroft wouldn't have minded, in fact, he probably would have found the situation ideal. Unfortunately, at the time, his circumstances weren't quite normal. He was apprehensive about the whole situation, as people always are with new things, he was lonely (just like in school) and he was really quite horribly homesick.

All the other students called their families, to stay in touch. Mycroft had tried doing this himself but had gotten a stern talking to from his father, who'd insisted he man up and deal with it ('Sherrinford was never like this, I'll tell you that'). That conversation was quite enough to dissuade him from attempting that small comfort again.  
>He wrote to Sherlock, but got a scathing letter in reply informing him that whilst Sherlock was being held captive in his newest prison (read: school) and Mycroft was out and about living the big life, he can shove his letters right up his - well, he wasn't all that open to communications either.<br>And of course, Sherringford was out of the question. Mycroft knew from experience that situations always seemed to get worse for him whenever his big brother was involved.

Suffice it to say that by the time he met Iris, things had gotten a bit too much for him.

He'd been sitting on his own in one of the parks in the more residential part of Oxford, as far away from the university as he could get. The idea had been to go for a walk, to clear his head a bit. It had quickly dissolved into his simply finding a quiet spot to have a bit of a cry in and be done with it.

She'd sat down beside him and asked if he was alright, rubbing his back when the tears insisted on falling in spite of his insisting that yes, he was absolutely fine, no really, don't worry about him he was fine.  
>When he finally did get enough of a hold of himself to stop blubbering like an absolute idiot, she insisted that she take them both out for dinner, because she wanted the food and frankly, he looked like he could use the company.<p>

They ended up spending the night together, talking about everything from their studies to books to that time Mycroft tried to teach Sherlock astronomy.  
>He asked her if they could meet up again, at some point, if she wasn't busy and just as friends of course, he wasn't presuming anything he just liked her company really.<p>

Fortunately, she quickly kissed him on the cheek and insisted that yeah, she would quite like to catch up again, but she would rather it were a bit more than just friends. Mycroft made his way back to his room grinning like an absolute loon that night.

Suddenly, Oxford didn't seem so gloomy when he had Iris to study with, to walk to and from lectures with, to just generally be around. She brightened up his day, as cliched as that sounded. And what was more, he thought that, in spite of how completely illogical and potentially disastrous such a condition could be, he was utterly in love with her, the sort of love that makes you want to shout so everyone could hear about it or made you feel like you could fly.

He didn't say any of that out loud of course, Mycroft was not the fanciful sort. But Iris had always had a way of knowing the things he left unsaid, and she had no qualms with informing him she felt the same.

They shared a flat during their second and third year at Oxford, and then rented another in London once they graduated. It wasn't nearly as grand a living as his parents had expected from him, and it certainly didn't live up to Sherrinford's classy lifestyle, but it suited them and that was more than enough for Mycroft.

Four years later, he asked Iris to marry him. She'd rather enthusiastically agreed.

It was a small, private wedding. None of Mycroft's family turned up. His father had died a few years earlier in a car accident on the way to work and his mother had fallen ill just after their engagement was announced and simply didn't get any better. Sherlock was god-knows-where, no doubt high as a kite and antagonising everyone he came across, and Sherringford considered their relationship rushed, doomed to fail and resolved to have no part in it.

Mycroft didn't mind though, because Iris was there, beautiful as ever and promising to spend the rest of her life with him, and accepting his pledge to spend the rest of his with her. Everything was just brilliant in his eyes.

They'd decided that they should focus on their careers first, before even trying to start a family. Having children as young as they were would have been quite detrimental to both their plans. So that's what they did. Mycroft slowly but surely (and always quietly) made his way up in the government until his influence surpassed even that of his mother's (although she was no longer around to be proud of him for that) and Iris was quickly becoming one of her paper's best journalists. It didn't pay much admittedly, but it worked for them.

It wasn't until quite a few years later that they felt ready to start trying for kids. 12 months after that decision was made, Basil Holmes entered the world. 3 years after him, his twin brothers Alfred and Harold joined them as well.

Predictably, things got harder, financially, as the family grew bigger and the boys got older. In spite of Mycroft's practically being the government by that point, he was still being paid a basic civil service wage. It made things harder but it was better in the long run. Being paid appropriately would only draw unwanted attention to his family after all.  
>And Iris was only a journalist, she loved the job but like Mycroft's, it wasn't really a bread-winning career.<p>

They made it work though. They scraped and they saved and together they managed both to live comfortably and to maintain the illusion of the posh lifestyle Mycroft's reputation required for his work. They lived in the right part of town, wore the right kind of clothes, the kids went to Devonshire House and Basil was well on his way to getting into Westminster (thank god for scholarships).

It certainly wasn't easy, but it was good and Mycroft loved it just the way it was.

And then Iris started to get sick.

Mycroft had wanted her to go to the doctors immediately, but she insisted that it was fine and reminded him that it was just flu season and that they both knew that on the rare occasion she actually got sick, her body didn't do things by halves. Grudgingly, Mycroft let it go.

But she just didn't get any better.

And then the abdominal pain started and by the time the doctors confirmed what was wrong, the cancer had already spread too far. Treatment would have only given her a little longer, it wouldn't have cured her.

Iris refused chemotherapy, determined to spend what time she had left with them as healthy as she could possibly be. She passed away not too long after the diagnosis was made. Mycroft didn't know whether to be grateful for that or not. On one hand, she wasn't suffering for long, on the other... she was gone.

It was a small, private funeral. None of Mycroft's family turned up. His parents were dead. Sherlock had been overseas, god-knows-where, and didn't learn of Iris' passing until after the funeral and Sherrinford sent his commiserations but couldn't take the time off work. It was just him, some of Iris' workmates and the boys bidding farewell to the beautiful woman Mycroft had once promised to spend the rest of his life with.

Things got harder after that, financially, emotionally, everything was just harder.

He had to maintain the illusion of privilege to keep his position in the government secure. He had to work longer hours and they had to make sacrifices to meet their budget, like the heating, the school excursions and their grocery list.

And that was just the practical side of things.  
>He was supposed to be helping the boys cope emotionally with everything that had happened.<p>

They'd lost their mother for Christ sake, how was he supposed to make that better? How was he supposed to make any of it better? How was he supposed to help them cope when he wasn't coping himself? How was he supposed to keep things together when he was falling apart.

A mere month on his own and he was already in way over his head. He couldn't do it on his own. Things couldn't possibly get any worse.

But then, of course, they did.


	2. Chapter 2

**WARNINGS: Anyone who has not read the ACD!Holmes story 'The Red-Headed League' but would like to should approach the mid section of this story with a little caution. I think we're pretty good other than that**

The general opinion regarding the loss of a loved one seemed to be that 'these things get better with time'. It was certainly a logical hypothesis. Mycroft had no doubt that it applied to many, if not the majority of people.

Unfortunately, Mycroft never had been the sort of man to pander to the whims of the masses at the expense of being contrary, no matter how much he wished for that not to be the case.

As such it really shouldn't come as all that much of a surprise that when he eventually looked back on that period of his life, he'd consider the first couple of months following Iris' passing as, by far, the easiest part of the whole experience.

That's not to say that it was a nice experience, it wasn't, it was one of the darkest moments of both his and the boy's lives.

They'd been heartbroken, of course. Mycroft lost count of the number of nights he or one of the boys had cried themselves to sleep.

It had come as a shock too.  
>Iris and Mycroft had attempted to explain to the boys what was about to happen before it did, they'd tried... but those sorts of discussions, no matter how long or frank, never really seem to do enough to prepare a person, especially ones so young, for the loss of a loved one.<p>

Mycroft himself, who was neither young nor ignorant to the loss of loved ones, still found himself constantly and brutally reminded of the finality of death.

It was a miserable time to be sure... but there was nothing complicated about it, or uncertain, or changing. It was constant, pure and simple misery, consistent to a fault. And though the matter in question was by no means a desirable one, there is always a sense of security in consistency and the known.

Which is ironic really, because the one consistent thing about consistency itself, is that it never lasts. Whatever solace one finds in it is not only a false one, but fleeting too.

As it turned out, Mycroft Holmes was not an exception to _that_ rule.

Two months into their new existence as a 'family unit minus one', almost to the day, the security of consistency took its inevitable flight. Mycroft and his sons finally reached the edge of their plateau and were cast off the cliff therein, from plain misery to depressive desperation.

Ironically, this particular day started off relatively uneventfully.

Mycroft woke with a crick in his neck, the sun in his eyes and the hem of Iris' favourite evening gown brushing against his cheek.

Many would consider waking up inside one's own wardrobe an unusual way to start the day. However Mycroft, over the last couple of months, did so with surprising frequency.

Sooner or later it was going to have to come to a stop, of course. In time, the smell of her perfume would fade (to be perfectly honest, he wasn't entirely certain that it hadn't already and he had just begun to imagine it instead). One day the once familiar brush of fabric would feel foreign against his skin and eventually, the notion of hiding away someplace small, dark and safe would feel more ridiculous than comforting.

Mycroft was a sensible man, he knew all of this to be true.

As such he had forced himself to faze the habit out, from the nightly routine it had started out as, to just every few nights, until it eventually became a mere coping mechanism for after setbacks.

Last night, there'd been a setback. Mycroft groaned softly at the mere memory of it.

The twins had refused to go to sleep until their Mum tucked them in. They'd reasoned that they'd been really good lately and then proceeded to beg Mycroft to tell Mummy that so she would come and see them, just for a visit, a really short one.

Thankfully, Basil had gone to bed earlier, having tired himself out at school, and so could not partake in Harry and Alfie's tearful pleading to bring Mummy back home.

After being forced to explain to his sons, _again_, that she couldn't come back, and then sit and watch as they cried themselves to sleep, Mycroft had been feeling a little emotionally overwhelmed.  
>Deciding that it certainly counted as a setback, Mycroft had slipped from their room, padded straight across the hall into his own, grabbed the quilt from the bed and crawled into Iris' corner of the walk-in-robe.<p>

Sighing, he closed his eyes for a couple of moments longer. He'd have to get up eventually, whether he felt ready for the day or not. But not just yet. For just a few moments, Mycroft reached up and ran his fingers over the hem of the gown, picking out from the texture of stains and the occasional frayed edge memories of parties past and moonlit walks that were as much a part of it as the fibres that made the fabric.

But as was their way, the minutes kept rolling on by, and as was his, Mycroft rolled on with them.

With one last caress of the slick, midnight blue fabric, he slowly got to his feet once more, pushed the wardrobe door the rest of the way open and groggily shuffled out to rejoin the world beyond and start the day.

Basil, ever the early riser, was already up, watching Doctor Who re-runs in his pyjamas with a bowl of cereal in his lap and the blasted dog by his side.

"You may tire of it you know," Mycroft murmured as he leaned down and pressed a kiss against the top of the boy's head, "If you continue to watch it so religiously."

"You still like it," Basil pointed out around a mouthful of processed wheat, "And you've watched it since the seventies."

With a smile tugging at his lips, Mycroft conceded that this was true.

"I tried to wake up Alfie and Harry," Basil announced, twisting around to face Mycroft the second an ad break permitted him to do so. "They won't get up. They're acting like babies."

"Don't call your brother's names," Mycroft scolded gently.

"I wasn't," Basil pointed out, "I was saying their behaviour was infantile."

"Basil," Mycroft grumbled, although he feared the amused smirk tugging at his lips countered that intended affect, "Go easy on them today."

"Any particular reason why?"

Sighing, Mycroft announced, "They had a bit of a trying night."

Bowing his head, Basil asked, "Was it about Mummy?"

Smiling sadly, Mycroft pressed another kiss against his son's auburn hair, murmuring, "Don't you worry about it," before continuing in a deliberately more upbeat manner, "Now, you finish that off quickly. I need you in the shower, a short one, as soon as I run a bath for those two."

"I know, I know," Basil sighed, picking up his spoon once more.

"That's my boy," murmured Mycroft before setting off to conquer the first challenge of the day.

The twins, unlike their big brother, were not morning people. It was a trait they strived to remind all those they felt needed reminding, each and every morning. As such, it was with a great show of protest, involving a good deal of wriggling, a bit of kicking, a lot of moaning and just a little screaming, that they were coaxed out of Morpheus' iron grip on that soon to be fateful morning.

"Daddy I don't want to go to school," Alfie whined, rolling about so he was positively cocooned amongst his sheets.

"Daddy, I don't want to either," Harry murmured from the bed pushed to the opposite side of the room.

"You both like it when you get there," Mycroft insisted whilst he worked at unwrapping Alfie.

"We do not," Harry mumbled, although he was beginning to sit up, which Mycroft took as a good sign (although it could go either way).

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you like it," he chuckled, "And you've got Show and Tell today. I thought you wanted to tell everybody about Uncle Sherlock's last case. What did you call it, the...?"

"The adventure of the Red-Headed League!" Alfie cried, leaping up from within his mound of bedding in his excitement, almost collecting Mycroft as he went.

Harry, as always, followed his brother's lead, crying, "When Uncle Sherlock and Doctor John stopped a real-life bank robbery."

"Well I'd call it more of a heist personally," Mycroft muttered, unheard by both his sons who'd somehow managed to go from near unconsciousness to jumping on the bed in a moment.

At least they seemed to have put the night before behind them, which was one thing.

"And then Uncle Sherlock whacked him with the riding crop and-"

"Yes, it is a thrilling tale isn't it?" Mycroft called out of the enthusiastic recitations of Sherlock's _brilliance_.

True to form, the boys immediately chorused, "Yeah!"

With a smile, Mycroft continued slyly, "And you wouldn't want to deprive your classmates of that story would you?"

"Well, no," Alfie conceded, plopping back down on his mattress.

"I suppose we could go," Harry obligingly announced, clambering up beside his brother.

"Good to hear it," chuckled Mycroft, "Well you'd best both start getting ready, shouldn't you?"

"Okay," they grudgingly chorused.

"I'll run you a bath so you can have a quick wash," Mycroft announced, "You didn't have one last night. Come along."

Grumbling mutinously but complying nonetheless, the boys slid off the bed and did as they were told.

With a satisfied nod Mycroft turned to leave but was stopped before he'd reached the door by Harry's rushing forward and grabbing his hand.

"Daddy! Can we take Cerberus to the park this morning?"

"Please Daddy, please," Alfie pleaded, clutching Mycroft's other hand.

Glancing down at his watch Mycroft hesitantly announce, "Well... we _may_ have half an hour to spare for the park," Alfie and Harry cheered, "But only if you're really, really quick this morning."

"We will be," Harry promised.

"Like lightning," Alfie insisted.

And true to their word, they were out the door in a flash.

Shaking his head, Mycroft followed.

"They're waiting for you in the ensuite," Basil announced.

"So I gathered."

"They seemed alright," he commented as he wandered past Mycroft on his way to deposit his bowl into the kitchen sink, Cerberus at his heels.

Scrubbing tiredly at his face, Mycroft replied, "They're just at that age I suppose. They tend to bounce back from everything."

When Basil walked back out, he was frowning.

"You think they still don't understand. I can try talking to them if you want?"

"Basil," Mycroft murmured, crouching down before the 10 year old, "You mustn't worry about these sorts of things. That's my job. You and your brothers are my responsibility, not yours."

"What if I want to help?" Basil asked, tilting his chin up defiantly.

Smiling, Mycroft gently squeezed his son's bony shoulders and replied, "I appreciate the offer, but you really must leave this to me."

Basil huffed.

"Please Basil," Mycroft pleaded, "Just take care of yourself okay. Let me worry about everyone."

For a long moment, Basil remained unmoved. Eventually though, reluctantly, he gave a quick nod.

Smiling sadly, Mycroft gave his shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before letting his hands drop.

"We'll be alright Basil. I promise."

"I know," Basil murmured.

"Good. Now. I'm going to run those two their bath, then you can have your shower and be quick, we don't want to use too much hot water."

"I know dad," Basil grumbled good-naturedly, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Of course you do," chuckled Mycroft, "Now you go get you uniform ready."

"Alright," Basil sighed theatrically, before trudging off to his room.

With a sigh and a couple more pops of his knees than he would have liked, Mycroft stood and headed back to his room.

The twins were true to their word and whizzed through the morning routine with as little amount of fuss as possible. Basil, likewise, had everything ready by the time Mycroft had finished his own shower. And not twenty minutes later they were out the door with the hell-hound posing as a cocker spaniel in tow and off to the park.

* * *

><p>Mycroft had always been a truly excellent actor.<p>

Not in the dramatic, front of stage, look-at-me sense of course. That was, by far, Sherlock and Sherrinford's territory.

No, Mycroft preferred to work behind the curtains. And though everybody pays no attention to the man behind the curtains, there is in fact a great deal of acting to be had there as well.

His current, well-(and truly)rehearsed and going on 24 year old act was that he was completely fine, in control and on the ball. Some times it wasn't an act. Most of the time though, 'Mycroft the man' wasn't nearly as on par with or as impressive as his reputation.

This particular morning was a species of the latter kind.

So in keeping with his act, Mycroft didn't let on in the slightest that he'd spent the last ten minutes, before he really was due in the office, sitting in his car attempting to come up with some plan as to how he was going to convince Basil to stop trying to force himself to replace his mother (he knew his son, and though they'd made progress earlier, he wasn't fooled. Basil was a determined boy and he had a protective streak a mile wide) or some new way of breaking it to the twins that it really wasn't a matter of behaving themselves well enough or pleading with him hard enough, Mummy was just not going to come back.

Instead he strode through the doors of his department, head held high and umbrella swinging, the very picture of confidence and power.

"Ah there you are," he called upon spotting his PA, "Beatrice of yesterday and...?"

"Carys."

"-of today. Good morning. What have we on the agenda today?"

"Good morning sir," she replied, following him into his office without so much as glancing up from her Blackberry. "A babysitting job first up I'm afraid. Cameron's got a teleconference with Miliband. You're going to have to sit in on this one, considering what happened last time, and ensure that they play nice... or at least-"

"Keep from saying anything that would get the Daily Mail's fingers too itchy," Mycroft finished with a long-suffering sigh as he unfastened his coat, "Understood. Next?"

"Tea with the Queen at 4."

"Always a pleasure, never a chore."

"I have it on good authority that she's feeling a little left out of the loop, so be sure to fill her in on some of the juicy gossip."

"Right you are."

"You've received another threat from our favourite trouble group."

Mycroft genuinely perked up at that.

"The Animal Rights lot or the money-laundering ring we sniffed out from the Treasury?"

"The money launderers I'm afraid," Carys replied, and bless her, she actually did appear quite regretful.

Sagging somewhat, Mycroft sighed, "Pity. The Animal Rights fellows are far more interesting."

"Very true sir," Carys replied, "I'm afraid the threat itself was rather unoriginal too. The standard 'We have friends in high place. You don't know what you're dealing with. You will rue the day Etc. Etc. number."

"How dull."

"Indeed sir."

"Perhaps if we ignore them long enough they'll send a letter bomb."

"One can only hope sir," Carys replied with an amused smile, "MI5 called as well sir. The Director would like a word."

"Joy of joys," muttered Mycroft, before rubbing his hands together and announcing, "Well, first things first, the Prime Minister's play date. I shall head over to Downing Street now. You take care of matters here and let me know if anything major comes up. Understood?"

"Absolutely sir."

"Marvellous. I suppose I'll be back by one then," he announced, re-fastening his coat and picking up his umbrella once more.

"Have fun sir," Carys called as he walked back out through the doors.

"I'll certainly try."

And with Act 1 Scene 1: The Office - complete, Mycroft swiftly made his exit.

Which was incredibly lucky, because if he'd dawdled for a moment longer, he'd have still been standing surrounded by the pride of Her Majesty's Civil Service rather than in a deserted parking lot when he received a purely innocent text that managed the feat that some of Britain's most ruthless politicians had been attempting to achieve for over two decades – making Mycroft Holmes' infamous act, falter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Mycroft**

**Please call me when you have a minute to spare**

**- SHERRINGFORD**

One's brother requesting a phone call shouldn't be a shocking thing. It shouldn't shake you right to your very core.

And yet that's exactly what it did to Mycroft, whom, upon reading his brother's message, was so taken aback that he accidentally stumbled into the side of his car.

Why was Sherrinford texting him? Sherrinford never text-messaged anyone, so why was texting Mycroft of all people? What did he have to say? What was wrong? Was he sick? Was he dying? Was he hurt? Was Sherlock?

By the time he'd managed to tap his way out of the message bank and find the 'call' app, dread had well and truly begun to bubble up inside of Mycroft, making his stomach turn.

It couldn't be good news, after all. It seemed to be an unspoken rule amongst the Holmes family, that nobody was to call Mycroft unless the situation was dire.  
>The last call he'd received from Sherrinford had been to inform him that he'd be required to attend the reading of Mother's will which he'd be carrying out in his London office, oh – hadn't you known, well now you do, ten o'clock, don't be late.<p>

The few conversations that they had shared after that were all initiated by Mycroft, and they never seemed to go anywhere.

So it was with no small amount of apprehension that he punched in the number of his brother's mobile phone and with a slightly trembling hand, pressed his own against his ear.

"That was quick," Sherrinford's drawled over the speaker, "I only just sent that blasted message."

"Yes, well, I've a free for the moment now," Mycroft replied, a little too stiffly for his liking; although he was trying to diagnose a terminal illness over mobile phone... and failing, so he felt he could be forgiven for the slip.

"Oh excellent, excellent. You're such a difficult chap to get a hold of you know?"

Frowning, Mycroft conceded that he certainly was a busy man.

"As am I Brother-Mine. Nonetheless, I have managed to get the rest of the day off today and I'm in London for the moment, so I wonder, would you like to come out for lunch with me this afternoon? It would be nice to catch up, no?"

"Certainly," Mycroft replied automatically, "Yes, that would be splendid. Well, I'm free between one and four, would that suit you?"

"That would be excellent," Sherrinford boomed, "I'll make reservations at the The Wolseley for half past one then. That's not too far out of your way is it?"

"Absolutely not," Mycroft replied, running a hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut at the thought of the bill. "I'll see you there."

"Excellent. Cheerio then."

"Wait – Sherrinford," Mycroft called, but his brother had already hung up.

* * *

><p>After three hours spent watching the nation's leader and his possible successor bicker like five year old boys over a toy truck, Mycroft's nerves were frayed.<p>

On one hand, he'd managed to single-handedly circumnavigate the way around not one but three possible political scandals (including an embarrassingly petty exchange that bore far too many similarities to a 'yo Momma' battle for Mycroft's liking) that would spend days inhabiting the front pages of the Daily Mail and its ilk.

On the other hand, it also served to temporarily rob Mycroft of enough of his senses and provided him with enough time to convince himself that his brother was either dying or in some sort of equivalently unpleasant mess.

As such, it was with no little amount of trepidation that he walked in through the door's of The Wolseley and asked the waiter to direct him to the table reserved under 'Holmes'.

Sherrinford was already there. He didn't look ill, but that didn't do too much to settle Mycroft's nerves.

"Mycroft!" his brother cried, pulling him in for a firm hug.

Mycroft's heart sank. He didn't think he could ever remember Sherrinford hugging him, not even when they were kids.  
>Swallowing the lump that had begun forming in his throat, Mycroft returned the greeting, awkwardly patting his brother's back before being released and promptly taking his seat.<p>

"So," Sherrinford drawled, reclining back in his chair, "How have you been little brother?"

Frowning, Mycroft measuredly replied, "I've been fine."

"Marvellous."

Deciding to bite the bullet, Mycroft took the opportunity and asked, "And you? How are you feeling?"

"Oh excellent, as always," Sherrinford flippantly replied.

Frowning, Mycroft asked, "Are you sure?"

"I trust I don't look ill," Sherrinford replied, brow quirked.

"No," murmured Mycroft, "Not at all."

"Well there you are then," Sherrinford replied, clapping his hands together, "And what has got you so concerned for my health? I know you're good Brother-Mine, but I'm not sure how even you would know that I was ill before I did."

Shaking his head, Mycroft shot his brother a tight smile.

"Unfortunately I'm not, at this moment, quite that good. I shall take note and work on it."

Sherrinford chuckled.

Considering his words very carefully, Mycroft continued, "I'm just a little confused as to the purpose of this meeting."

"Purpose?" Sherrinford mused, "Is it so unheard of for brothers to occasionally catch up when the opportunity arises?"

"We've never _caught up _in the past," Mycroft pointed out.

"The opportunity rarely arises."

"And that's all?" Mycroft asked, "I apologise if I come across as impertinent but this is just... very unlike you."

Sherrinford frowned.

"You see, we've never been close," Mycroft continued, feeling that he needed to defend his reasoning, "We don't talk often. So I'm just a little confused as to why you've decided to call me, out of the blue, to come and lunch with you if there is nothing wrong or there's nothing of importance for you to tell me."

For a long moment, Sherrinford didn't answer. He leaned over, picked up his glass of wine and took a small sip of it. Only then did he reply, "Well, I would be lying if I said there was no purpose _at all_ to my calling a meeting with you today."

"I see," Mycroft replied, the usual triumphant thrill of being right, spoilt by dread bubbling up once more, "And what is that purpose?"

Idly swirling his wine, Sherrinford slowly replied, "Honestly? I wanted to check on you, to see how you're coping."

Mycroft stiffened.

"Is that so?"

"I was worried about you," Sherrinford confessed, "I've not heard from you since before the funeral. I was concerned you may not have been coping."

"You could have called," Mycroft levelly replied, "If you were concerned."

"I did. And then I arranged this lunch."

"I meant, you could have called before now," Mycroft snapped, before forcing himself to regain composure, "It's been two months. Surely you weren't that worried."

Sherrinford sighed.

"I owe you an apology."

He really didn't. He'd not disappointed Mycroft with his inaction after all, in fact, Mycroft had expected nothing less.  
>But, ever the politician, he didn't say that out loud.<p>

Instead, he told his brother to not worry about it, "It would have made little difference anyway."

"You're still upset," Sherrinford pointed out.

"I'm not upset."

"Disappointed?"

"Certainly not," Mycroft sighed, "Forgive me, but I'm not yet accustomed to discussing my sudden demotion to widower with a smile on my face."

"I see," Sherrinford replied sympathetically. "Nonetheless, I must know, how are you coping?"

Pursing his lips, wishing that Sherringford would just let it go, Mycroft stiffly replied, "The boys and I are handling the situation fine, thank you."

"You're doing well then?" Sherrinford pressed on, a little too disbelieving for Mycroft's liking.

"As well as can be expected," Mycroft answered evenly.

Sherrinford, damn him, remained unconvinced.

"Surely the boys miss their mum?" he asked.

Mycroft flinched at that.

"Of course they miss her," he murmured, the fight steadily draining out of him as Harry and Alfie's sobbing from the night before rang in his ears, "You've no idea how much they miss her."

Sherrinford sighed.

"Why do you insist that you're all fine when you're quite obviously not?"

Mycroft, unable to hold his brother's gaze any longer, glanced out of the window they were sitting by.

He jumped slightly when he felt Sherrinford's hand gently grasp his shoulder.

"You need to talk to someone about this," he said.

"Who would I talk to Sherrinford?" Mycroft chuckled sadly, "My non-existent circle of friends? A counsellor I can't spare the money or time to see? Sherlock?"

"Me?"

"Pardon?" Mycroft chuckled, "You?"

"Yes," Sherrinford replied resolutely, "Me. I'm you're big brother Mycroft. I want to help you. I want to be here for you."

He should have stopped it there, nipped it in the bud. The mess that followed would have never come to be if he'd just diplomatically but firmly insisted then that he appreciated the offer, but he wasn't quite ready to talk yet.  
>In any other circumstance other than this one, that's exactly what he would have done.<p>

And yet Mycroft didn't do that. He should have, but he didn't.

Instead, he blurted out, before he could stop himself. "Why now?"

"Pardon?"

Turning back to face Sherrinford, Mycroft, unable to completely mask the hurt behind his words, asked, "Why do you want to be here for me now? Why weren't you there for me when we found out about the cancer?"

"Mycroft?"

"Why weren't you there when I asked you to come to the funeral?" Mycroft croaked, "I needed you then. I would have been there for you, if our places had been reversed. You know I would."

"I'm sorry," Sherrinford sighed, still clutching Mycroft's shoulder, "I was busy with work. I figured – you've always been closer to Sherlock and you had him there..."

Mycroft chuckled sadly.

"He was there wasn't he?"

Sighing, Mycroft shook his head.

"He was on a case in Russia. Out of contact. He didn't find out until a week afterwards. It was just the boys and I."

Sherrinford leaned back, eyes wide and seemingly horrified.

"Jesus," he croaked, "Mycroft, brother, I'm so sorry. I, well, I didn't know."

Mycroft couldn't bring himself to answer. He couldn't say that it wasn't Sherrinford's fault, or that he didn't mind – it was and he did. Instead, he settled for staring down at the contents of his glass, rather than risk catching his brother's eye.

"But I'm here now," Sherrinford pressed on, "Please let me be here for you. Let me make it up to you Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed.

"You're my little brother," Sherrinford said, smiling sadly, "It's my job to look after you. I know I've not done it in the past, and I'm sorry for that. But I want to change that now. I think it's about time that I start acting like a good big brother to you."

Years later, Mycroft would think himself foolish for doing it, for listening to his brother, for believing him, for thinking he cared.  
>But at the time, he'd be tired, more than a little overwhelmed and feeling so incredibly alone. And there was Sherrinford, offering him a helping hand, a shoulder to lean on – and in his desperation Mycroft had grabbed a hold of it like a lifeline and poured out his soul.<p>

He'd confided in Sherrinford just how much he missed Iris, how sometimes her absence would physically ache. He'd confided in him how worried he was about the boys. He'd talked about how the twins simply refused to face the reality of the situation and how Basil was trying just as desperately as Mycroft himself, to take care of everyone and in doing so, trying to force himself to grow up. He'd confessed his fears that they were all heading for one, big emotional catastrophe because each one of them were avoiding the issue like their life depended on it.  
>Worst of all, he admitted that he simply had no idea what he was supposed to do.<p>

"You need a break," Sherrinford chuckled sadly.

Mycroft laughed.

"What a lovely thought," he murmured, "Unfortunately, not a realistic one though."

"Oh?"

"Sherlock and his colleague, Dr. Watson, only just had them last week whilst I took care of an emergency at work. It would hardly be fair of me to ask them to care for the boys again simply because I'm tired."

"Well you do have other resources at hand brother," Sherrinford pointed out.

"Are you aware how much babysitters cost?" scoffed Mycroft.

Chuckling, Sherrinford replied, "I meant me Mycroft. I don't know how many times we need to go over this."

Mycroft feared that he must have looked somewhat, what's the term, bug-eyed at that.

"You?"

"Should it really come as such a shock?" Sherrinford chuckled, "Lydia and I have the room. For goodness sake – we have the whole bloody house thanks to Mummy. There's more than enough room for them. And Lydia's reached that stage where she wants to smother everything under the age of thirteen with affection – so they would be spoilt rotten by the end of the weekend I'm afraid, although, I have it on good authority that children quite like that. And, like I said already – I want to be here for you, you and the boys, and if that means taking care of my nephews for the weekend than I would gladly do so."

"I-uh, that's...really generous of you Sherrinford."

"The least I can do I assure you," Sherrinford replied, "It really wouldn't be any bother Mycroft. What do you say?"

Fortunately, the waiter arrived that moment to deliver the starters Sherrinford had ordered before Mycroft's arrival, providing Mycroft with a little time to think it over.

The problem was, he didn't know what to think of it. He was torn.

Though it certainly seemed that Sherrinford had turned over a new leaf, Mycroft couldn't quite bring himself to trust it just yet. He would love to be proven wrong and discover that Sherrinford had actually decided to finally become the big brother he'd always wanted him to be, but just then – it just all seemed a little too sudden and far too drastic a change to be a real one. This Sherrinford was just too far removed from the brother who wouldn't lift a finger to help him back when he was being bullied from pillar to post at school or when he was struggling during Iris' final days,

He couldn't help but fear that there was some sort of ulterior motive behind it all.

But, for the life of him, Mycroft couldn't think of what it could be. What could he possibly have to gain from taking care of the boys for a couple of days for goodness sake?  
>He might try and demand money or favours down the track. Mycroft could live with that. God knows he was merely waiting for Sherlock to come knocking to demand compensation for or the aid he'd provided in the past few weeks.<p>

Or maybe he would simply rub it in his face that once again, he'd not been able to cope on his own, that he'd needed Sherrinford's help. Again, Mycroft was just waiting for it from Sherlock and it really wouldn't be all that out of the ordinary from Sherrinford's normal attitude towards him.

No matter how hard he thought about it, Mycroft simply couldn't think of a con dire enough to outweigh all of the pros.

He was absolutely exhausted after all, and a weekend on his own, would be marvellous. He'd be able to sort out and get on top of things again, rather than trotting behind like he had been for months now.  
>And the boys would get to spend time with their Aunt and Uncle and no doubt be doted on all weekend, which was more than Mycroft seemed to be able to offer them.<br>Not to mention, it looked like he'd have to spend all of Saturday, probably a bit of Sunday too, fixing the Mayor's latest mess, they'd just be stuck at home, miserable with some babysitter anyway, simply because Mycroft didn't like the idea of them being somewhere else. It wouldn't be fair of him to deny them the opportunity to possibly have a little fun for once for no good reason.

"Anyway, as I was saying," Sherrinford drawled, finished with the waiter, "What's you opinion on the matter Mycroft?"

With a small sigh, Mycroft replied, "I'd have to talk it over with the boys."

"Of course."

"But, I don't see it being a problem," he continued, "I'll call you tonight though. Once we've discussed it."

"Marvellous," Sherrinford said, a grin spreading across his face.

"I really do appreciate it."

"Think nothing of it," Sherrinford replied, before insisting that it was time to 'Tuck in."


	4. Chapter 4

****By the time Mycroft finally managed to get back home, he was beyond exhausted.

The unfortunate situation with MI5 had taken a little longer than he had expected (and infinitely longer than he'd hoped), which resulted in Mycroft's being forced to beg his assistant to pick up the boys from after-school care and mind them until he could get away. She was the only person (other than his brother and Doctor Watson) whom he'd trust with the task at such short notice. The bill for overtime was well worth it (even if he had had to twist her arm to except it).

Nonetheless, a mere hour and a half behind schedule, the mess in question had been cleaned up, the agent's responsible had been thoroughly disciplined and Mycroft was finally released from his desk and allowed to go home.

The trip from his offices in Westminster to the apartment in St. John's Woods was a short one, only 20 minutes, having missed the traffic typical of Friday afternoons thanks to day-dwelling Londoner's rushing home to begin their weekends.

And though a more or less traffic-free drive home was a nice change, it was approaching eight by the time he'd finally hefted himself out of the car, up the stairs and through the front door, that is to say, the night was not getting younger and he still had much to do.

As always, Cerberus was at the door waiting for him, or rather, waiting to seize the opportunity for another run about the block.

"Oh no you don't," Mycroft huffed, stooping down and grabbing the monster as he made his bid for freedom.

"You really must cease this ridiculous behaviour," he told the dog, lifting it up to eye level in an attempting to cow him in much the same manner he did with the politicians in his charge, with a firm tone and a stern glare.

Unfortunately, Cerberus, wise to Mycroft's methods, promptly thwarted his efforts in a manner no politician, or indeed, human being in general, would dare to attempt – namely, leaning forward and giving his nose a big, slobbery lick.

"What is the point of you?" Mycroft groaned, juggling the menace, his briefcase, umbrella and coat around until he managed to close the door and unburden himself of them all.

Roughly rubbing away the fresh drool streaked across his face, he glared down at the dog and hissed, "You my friend, are an absolute savage."

Cerberus gazed up at him, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of his mouth. The damn dog was mocking him, of that, Mycroft was certain.

However, before he could so much as open his mouth to scold him for his cheek, or even realise that doing so would be both useless and ridiculous, he was off, trotting down the hall to the living room.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft shrugged off his jacket and hung it up beside his coat, before following the hell-hound's lead.

"I didn't know pears sunk," Carys mused as the end credits of a QI episode rolled by on the television screen.

"I did," Alfie announced, puffing out his chest.

"I did too," Harry piped.

"No you didn't," Basil murmured, flicking over a page of one of the many text books he had laid out on the coffee table before him.

"We absolutely did," Alfie argued.

"No you didn't," Basil retorted, absent-mindedly twirling his pen between his fingers, "You shouldn't lie."

"And you shouldn't be such a stick in the mud," Alfie retorted, poking out his tongue.

"Alfie, how many times must I tell you to stop calling people names until you finally do it?" Mycroft sighed, walking over to the sofa where everybody had gathered for the evening.

Any response Alfie may have had was drowned out by Harry, who cheerfully cried, "Daddy!" before scrambling over the back of the aforementioned sofa and leaping into his father's arms.

"Daddy we had a QI marathon," he excitedly announced.

"Did you really?"

"It was three episodes," Basil muttered, rolling his eyes.

"It's more than we usually watch," Harry countered good-naturedly, "That means it's a marathon."

Mycroft chuckled.

"Did you learn anything interesting?" he asked, fondly ruffling Alfie's hair as he leant over the back of the sofa and gave him a quick hug.

"Yeah," he piped, grinning ear to ear as he plopped back down on the cushions, "These scientists in America, they drugged these bees with... um... ?"

"Cocaine, Marijuana and Caffeine," Carys gently prompted.

"Yeah," he replied, "The Caffeine made them really hyper-"

"The Cocaine made them really precise-" said Harry.

"And the Marijuana made them _really_ slow," Alfie giggled.

"They weren't bees actually," said Basil, glancing up from his homework at last, "They were spiders. The test was to see how the drugs affected their web making. Remember?"

Mycroft laughed.

"Either way, it's probably best not to talk about this in front of your uncle... it would only give him ideas."

"And on the ominous note," Carys chuckled, "I'll take my leave."

"Thank you so much for taking care of them," Mycroft murmured as settled Harry back down between his bickering brothers and accompanied her to the door.

"It's no problem at all sir," she replied, already pulling her Blackberry out of her purse, "I'm glad I could be of assistance."

"Well I truly appreciate the help, so again, thank you."

"You're welcome sir," Carys chuckled, "Back to more official business though; we've got an appointment at City Hall tomorrow?"

"Yes I'm afraid so," Mycroft sighed, "We've another mayor-sized problem to remedy."

"Oh joy," Carys drawled, "But I suppose it's something to look forward to sir. That particular breed of incompetence rarely fails to be amusing."

"How true," Mycroft chuckled, "So I'll meet you in the lobby of City Hall then?"

"Ten o'clock sharp sir."

"Marvellous," Mycroft replied around a yawn that he'd, rather embarrassingly, been unable to contain.

"Have a good night sir," Carys said, buttoning up her coat and flashing him a friendly smile, "And try to get some rest tonight, you look like one of the living dead."

"What a charming comparison," Mycroft scoffed, "Be sure you do so as well. We have a big day ahead of us."

"Of course sir."

"And Carys, really, thank you again."

"Don't worry about it," Carys insisted, smiling nevertheless, "Evening sir."

"Good evening."

"Bye boys," she called, over Mycroft's shoulder, lingering just a moment longer as the boys bellowed back their reply, before spinning on her heal and departing without any more fuss.

"Would you like me to cook dinner dad?" Basil asked after Mycroft all but collapsed on the sofa between him and the twins.

"No thank you," he yawned, "I'll do it in a minute."

"But you're really tired," Basil pointed out.

"I'll manage," Mycroft chuckled, "You need to stop worrying so much Basil. It's quite the nasty and most unfortunately inevitable habit... we wouldn't want it sinking its claws into you too early would we? And Alfred Stephen Holmes, I will not tell you again, no name-calling."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking it."

"You can't tell me off for thinking things!" Alfie cried indignantly.

"First of all, I'm not telling you off. I'm merely warning you that you're about to say something that may hurt someone's feelings in the, no doubt, vain hope that you take note and learn from it," Mycroft replied, lips twitching in effort to keep the smile struggling into being from his face, "And secondly... I most certainly can."

Harry giggled.

Even the ever-solemn Basil cracked a smile.

"That's not fair at all," Alfie grumbled, crossing his arms and legs and shuffling into the corner of the sofa, or to put it another way, assuming his 'sulk position'.

"Perhaps not," Mycroft mused, "Nonetheless, that's how it is."

Alfie huffed.

"Anyway, I've got some news for you."

"Oh?" murmured Basil, actually going so far as to close his book so to not get distracted.

Harry and Alfie's interest were likewise captured (although Alfie attempted to hide it out of spite).

"Anything interesting?" his eldest asked.

"Maybe," Mycroft replied, "I ran into your uncle today-"

"That's not interesting," Alfie whined, "You run into Uncle Sherlock all the time, mostly on purpose."

"Alfie don't be rude," Mycroft gently reprimanded, "And I wasn't actually talking about your Uncle Sherlock."

Basil frowned.

"I had lunch today, with your Uncle Sherrinford actually," Mycroft continued, "My elder brother."

"Why?" Alfie asked, "What did he want?"

"Alfie – you're being rude _again_," Mycroft sighed.

"They're fair questions though," Basil murmured, "You and Sherrinford never _have lunch_. I was under the impression you were borderline estranged."

"I wouldn't say estranged," Mycroft replied, "Merely… uncommunicative."

"I see," Basil drawled, clearly unimpressed.

"But why though?" Alfie pressed on, ever the determined one.

"Is he alright?" Harry asked, wide-eyed.

With a fond smile, Mycroft assured them that both their aunt and uncle were perfectly fine.

"They're very eager to catch up with you three though."

"Really?"

"Really. They'd like you to come visit them for the weekend actually," Mycroft replied, "Only if you want to of course."

"This weekend?" Basil asked.

"It doesn't necessarily have to be _this_ weekend or not at all," Mycroft replied, "But your Uncle's in town tonight and he offered to take you back home with him tomorrow if you wanted to, just for the weekend mind you."

Basil frowned.

"What do you want us to do?" he asked.

"It's your choice Basil. I'm happy as long as you are," Mycroft answered, "If you want to visit, by all means, visit – it's only for the night. However if you'd rather stay home, then you're welcome to do that as well."

"But what would yo-"

"Where do they live?" Harry asked, cutting Basil off.

"Up in Buckinghamshire," Mycroft replied, "In Gerard's Cross."

"Really?" Alfie cried, "That's really expensive isn't it?"

"Quite," he chuckled, "They live in the family home. It's been there for generations. Since the late 19th century."

"Wow," Harry obligingly whispered.

Mycroft grinned.

"So is that where you grew up?" Basil asked, the twin's excitement gradually chipping away at his misgivings about the situation.

"Yes it is. Sherrinford inherited it after your Grandmother passed away."

"Could we see your bedroom?" Alfie asked, "If we went."

"I doubt it would look the same as it did when it _was_ my bedroom," Mycroft pointed out.

"Still... "

"Still, I'm sure your Uncle would show you it, if you asked."

"Brilliant!"

"Do they have any pets?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," said Mycroft, "They have a cow in the backyard, I know that. Haven't the faintest clue why but Sherrinford brought it up a few times."

"A cow?" the twins cried, "We've never seen a cow before! Can we go Daddy?"

Mycroft chuckled.

"If you want to-"

"We do!"

"Then I'll call you Uncle up after dinner," Mycroft finished.

"How about you Basil?" he asked, turning to his eldest, "Would you like to visit?"

Basil bit his lip.

"You really don't have to if you don't want to," Mycroft insisted, "I don't want you feeling pressured into doing something you'd rather not."

"I don't," Basil promised.

For a moment he pondered the matter, whilst Harry and Alfie enthusiastically discussed their suddenly very interesting weekend-to-be (or rather, their soon-to-be first cow sighting).  
>It didn't take him all that long to reach his decision though.<p>

"I'll go," he said, "Someone's got to keep and eye on those two-"

"Basil-"

"And… I would quite like to see the cow," Basil continued, a small smile tugging at his lips, "Should be interesting."

The night went by relatively quickly after that.

Mycroft called Sherrinford, to inform him that the boys were quite happy to visit. Sherrinford seemed very pleased about that and Mycroft tried very hard to let that enthusiasm settle some of his uneasiness that was still lingering in regards to the situation. Sherrinford wouldn't do anything to them. It was only for a couple of days. It would be fine.

It didn't work all that well. However the movie marathon the movie marathon that Hary and Alfie insisted upon after dinner enjoyed much more success, calming Mycroft's nerves so thoroughly that he didn't even make it halfway through the first movie before nodding off.

Like the previous one, the following morning Mycroft woke to a crick in his neck, sun in his eyes and something soft brushing against his cheek.  
>However, that's where the similarities ended, as the 'something soft' that morning was not the hem of an evening gown but rather the tips of Harry's messy brown hair.<p>

Glancing down, Mycroft found the rest of the boy sprawled haphazardly across his chest, snuffling quietly in his sleep.

And apparently using one's father as an oversized (and if Sherlock was to be believed, overstuffed) cushion was not an altogether original idea, as both Alfie and Basil were doing so as well, the latter having somehow wedged himself between Mycroft and the back of the sofa and the former draped in a rather housecat-like fashion across his legs.

However it wasn't this peculiar sleeping arrangement, mildly uncomfortable though it was, that succeeded in waking Mycroft, but rather the noisy and insistent buzzing of their apartment's doorbell.

Mycroft frowned. Sherrinford wasn't due to come pick the boys up until nine, why was he already there? Come to think of it, what time was it?

After carefully extracting his arm from under Harry, Mycroft grabbed his mobile from the coffee table and tapped it back to life.

**9:12am**

Mycroft was not a man who indulged in swearing often. Nonetheless, as he carefully disentangled himself from the impromptu dog-pile and hurried to the intercom, he allowed himself that small comfort, maintaining a more or less constant litany of curses under his breath as he went.

"Hello?" he croaked once he finally reached the speaker.

"Finally," his brother drawled, "I've been standing out here for the last ten minutes."

"Yes, I gathered. So sorry about that, the… alarm clock didn't go off."

"… I see."

"Sorry again. I'll buzz you right up."

"Yes. That would be nice," Sherrinford replied, Mycroft could practically see the eye roll that accompanied that statement.

He sighed and pushed the appropriate buttons.

"Thank you very much," Sherrinford said, a tad snidely, but Mycroft reasoned that he had left him standing on the front step for the past ten minutes.

He didn't dwell on it though. He had approximately 48 seconds before his brother made it up the single flight of stairs leading to the apartment's front door, he planned to make the most of it, namely, by dashing about said apartment, setting as much of it to right as he could.

Exactly 48 seconds later there was a knock on the door.

Glancing about regretfully, Mycroft obediently made his way down the hall to let his brother in.

"Sherrinford," he greeted, pasting on his best politician's grin with ease.

"Mycroft," Sherrinford replied, returning the smile (and thankfully holding back from repeating that unsettling hugging business from the day before).

"Sorry again for the wait," Mycroft sighed as he led the way to the living room, "We're running a bit late this morning."

"A bit?" Sherrinford scoffed upon spotting the boys, all still unconscious (and resistant to Mycroft attempts at rousing them) on the sofa.

"Yes. We had a bit of a movie night and didn't quite make it to bed," Mycroft quietly chuckled.

"So I see," Sherrinford murmured, whilst he glanced about, inspecting the flat.

Fortunately for Mycroft, who was finding the whole situation highly embarrassing, Ceberus chose that moment to dash out of whatever crevice he'd spent the night haunting. Seemingly intent in ripping him into very small pieces, the dog leapt up and then over the sofa, straight at Sherrinford.

Lurching forward, Mycroft was just able to catch him before the assault was undertaken.

With Cerberus struggling valiantly in his arms, snarling and growling all the while, Mycroft carefully stepped around his brother and darted back to the kitchen, quickly locking the dog inside.

"So sorry about that," he called, "He gets like that with some people. I probably should have warned you."

"Probably?" Sherrinford cried the second Mycroft returned to the living room, "What the devil was that thing anyway?"

Before he could respond though, Harry, who, like his brothers, had been woken by the commotion, cheerfully piped, "That's Cerberus."

"What?"

"Cerberus. Our dog."

Spinning around to face Mycroft, Sherrinford cried, "That thing's yours?"

"Well it would be rather worrying if he wasn't," Mycroft calmly replied.

"Worrying? How's that monster _not_ being yours worrying?"

"Well, considering he was in our apartment," Mycroft chuckled.

Mistaking his Uncle's exasperation for confusion, Harry climbed up so he was sitting on the back of the sofa, and explained, "You see, if he wasn't our dog, it would mean that someone else must have put him in here-"

"And they would have had to have broken in to do it-" Alfie announced, plopping down beside him.

"Which means that for some reason, someone has taken it upon themselves to compromise the safety of our home, which really would be worrying," Basil concluded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "So really, it's a good thing that he's our dog, naughty behaviour aside of course."

Sherrinford stood stunned, a moment longer, before quite obviously forcing himself to calm down.

"Right," he murmured, "Of course."

Turning to Mycroft, he announced with a slightly strained smirk, "Well, they certainly take after you."

Grinning, Mycroft instructed him to make himself at home whilst he and the boys quickly got their things together. It didn't take all that long, only needing to stuff a couple of sets of clothes, their pyjamas, the twin's comfort toys and some of Basil's books into their school rucksacks.

"It's a lovely place you have here Mycroft," Sherrinford announced as Mycroft ushered the twins into the living room whilst Basil went to fetch the toiletries, "It's so… compact."

"Thank you," Mycroft replied, smiling tightly, "It works quite well for us."

"So I can see," Sherrinford murmured as Basil returned, zipping up his bag.

Standing up from the sofa and rubbing his hands together, Sherrinford asked, "Are you boys ready to get going?"

"What about breakfast?" Harry asked, "Mummy always makes us eat breakfast."

Mycroft sighed and steadfastly avoided his brother's uneasy glance.

"_Made_, Harry."

Harry ignored him.

"We could pick something up on the way to my house," Sherrinford suggested.

"McDonald's?" Harry asked, sharing a grin with Alfie

"Harry I don't think-"

"McDonald's is fine," Sherrinford announced, cutting across Basil's protests.

"Unfortunately plebeian," he teased, "But fine."

"But Dad doesn't like us eating fast food," Basil insisted, "It's unhealthy."

"It's alright Basil," Mycroft replied, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly and flashing him a small smile, "Just this once won't hurt."

"But-"

"Basil! Stop being a-"

"Alfie…" Mycroft warned.

Alfie glared down at the carpet, but said no more.

"Well, now that's settled, let's get going," Sherrinford announced, slinging his coat over his shoulder.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon," Mycroft said as he accompanied them to the door, "If you have any problems, call me. Make sure you behave yourselves, which means no name-calling Alfie-"

"Fine," Alfie sighed.

"Good. And… try to have some fun."

"We will," the boys chorused.

"Oh and also-"

"Mycroft," Sherrinford chuckled, "If you Mother Hen any more, I fear you might start clucking."

Harry and Alfie giggled at that. Basil frowned at them.

Mycroft sighed.

"Just, call me if there are any problems… any at all-"

"Yes, you said," Sherrinford laughed, before turning to the boys and instructing them to, "Say goodbye to dad."

The uneasiness he'd felt regarding the situation increased ten-fold as he hugged them each as the passed out the door. Too late to call it off now though, and really, since when did he listen to gut-feelings over reason?

"They'll be fine," Sherrinford insisted, clapping him on the shoulder as he turned to leave as well, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Of course they will be," Mycroft murmured, although whether it was directed to Sherrinford or himself he wasn't quite sure.

With one last amused grin, Sherrinford walked out the door, letting it click shut behind him.

Sighing, Mycroft went back to the living room, releasing Cerberus from the kitchen as he went.

The dog dashed about the apartment in search of the boys as Mycroft dropped back down on the sofa with a sigh. He could spare a couple minutes before leaving for work, and he was already feeling exhausted.  
>After determining that they were indeed on their own, Cerberus jumped up beside him and let out a low, forlorn whine.<p>

"I know," Mycroft sighed, smiling sadly down at the beast, "I feel the same."


	5. Chapter 5

****So sorry about the mega long wait guys. RL has just decided to remind of its existance by being a right brat and throwing a tantrum (hmmm... who does that sound like?). But, for now at least, I'm back - I would like to re-assert my assurances that I WILL finish this story - and with no further ado, the next parts :)****

The day that followed was absolute hell.

Although international politics was habitually stressful, complicated (occasionally, even for Mycroft) and more often than not, downright frustrating, it did enjoy the sole benefit of Mycroft's intervention on ever being necessary when matters got really juicy, therefore making it, more or less, interesting thus moderately bearable work.

Domestic politics however, was thankless and soul crushing labour of which Mycroft was, regrettably, called in to handle all the time. The grasping little critters simply refused to let him be.

And though this _charity_he indulged in for the mayor and his merry band of imbeciles was, admittedly, far better for his cover as 'modest minor government official Mr. Holmes – you know, the scary bloke with the umbrella and weird Christian name... no the other one, yeah him' than jet setting around the globe all year around, and it was certainly best for raising the boys, now it was just him, and of course for keeping an eye on Sherlock – Mycroft (who was by no means above just a smidgen of pettiness) did resent doing it, just a little.

This particular call out didn't stray from the norm in the slightest.

The Mayor had somehow managed to create, and then promptly bury himself in yet another mess that would have surely resulted in his forced resignation if it weren't for Mycroft and Dominique's timely intervention. It wasn't a complicated matter, merely a big and exceedingly tedious one that took them all day to clear up and resulted in their hatching an alarmingly thorough plot to have the Mayor, his advisors and the haughty admin officer responsible for the deplorable filing system they were forced to contend with, murdered without leaving a shred evidence. They had had to stop after an hour or so... the temptation had been rapidly becoming too hard to resist.

Suffice it to say that by the time they were through, Mycroft had three hour of daylight left to enjoy, felt about three decades older than he ought to have, and around five more than he was.

"Bloody hell Mycroft. You look like Death warmed up."

Clearly, he didn't appear all that dissimilar to how he felt.

"Thank you Doctor Watson," he drawled, a tired, although he liked to think, still sardonic smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "That's the second comparison to a Zombie I've received in as many days."

"Perhaps you should start taking notice," John scoffed, leading the way up stairs to 221B.

Mycroft chuckled.

"Yes, well, no rest for the wicked I suppose."

"Then I dare say you must hardly sleep at all," Sherlock drawled from the sofa on which he was elegantly sprawled (if one can sprawl elegantly that is) the second they walked through the door.

John threw a put-upon glance over his shoulder at Mycroft and instructed him to make himself at home before settling down on the coffee-table himself, muttering all the while about pots and kettles calling each other names.

"So what, pray tell, is at the root of this visit?" Sherlock asked, languidly rolling his head from one shoulder to the other, so to apathetically stare at Mycroft all the better, "You only come by when you want something."

"You have a very broad definition of my _wanting something_," Mycroft pointed out, "In most people's eyes, coming by to ensure for one's self that one's brother's injuries are healing well, or that he's spirits are up, or to check that he's not: out of food, forgotten to pay the bills, is in the midst of provoking an entire police department into committing assault, en masse, against his person, etc – isn't quite the entirely selfish act that you seem convinced it is."

Sherlock snorted.

"You're just doing it to put _your_mind at ease," he retorted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. John did too.

"You know that's not true."

"It certainly is."

""You're being ridiculously childish."

"Well, you've got to keep in mind that you _are_dealing with a child."

Mycroft twisted around in his seat to find one Gregory Lestrade, looking quite at home leaning in the doorway with his hands stuffed in his pockets and an amused grin spread across his face.

With a huff, Sherlock flopped over onto his side and curled up into a ball, facing the back of the sofa so that his back was to the rest of the room, making it clear to all who cared (and there weren't many) that he was not happy with the proceedings in the slightest.

Mycroft, John and Lestrade, naturally, took no notice.

"Alright Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, walking over to join the group, commandeering a chair from the kitchen table before doing so.

Mycroft smiled.

"Considerably, thank you very much," he smoothly replied, "And yourself?"

"Well enough," Lestrade chuckled, settling down beside him, "Enjoying the day off, I'll tell you that. Nothing to do but eat, sleep and bug these two."

A day off with nothing to do. Mycroft feared he might have actually been salivating at the mere thought of it.

Fortunately, John inadvertently covered for him by, whilst glancing suspiciously between them, asking, "You two know each other then?"

Apparently Sherlock had decided that he'd spent just about enough time out of the limelight, as indicated by his promptly drawling, before either Mycroft or Lestrade could reply, "Of course they know each other. The two biggest pains in my-"

"Language Sherlock."

"-how could they not? The conspiring-"

"Sherlock..."

"Gits."

Mycroft sniffed reproachfully.

Lestrade, rolling his eyes, turned to John and asked, "Mind if I nick a beer off you mate?"

"Only if you fetch me one too," John called as Lestrade all but fled to the refuge of the kitchen, "This evening's going to require alcohol, I can tell already."

"How plebeian," Sherlock drawled, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself John."

Holding out his arms in a rather martyr-like fashion and grinning ear to ear, John laughed to nobody in particular, "I rest my case."

Smirking, Mycroft leaned forward, tapped his brother's hip sharply with the tip of his umbrella, and announced, "I warn you Brother-Mine, my suspicions as to the origin of some of Alfie's less than desirable behaviour are quickly being confirmed."

Sherlock, at last, sat up and properly joined the conversation, smirking smugly and muttering something about protégés under his breath.

Mycroft rolled his eyes as Lestrade returned with the beers, tossing one to John, another _at _Sherlock and dropping a fourth into Mycroft's lap.

"To answer your question John," the detective replied, picking up the can from where Mycroft had placed on the edge of the coffee table, opening it and pushing it back into his hands, "Yes, we know each other. Have done for about five-"

"Almost six," Mycroft interjected, struggling down a placating sip of beer, grimacing in a rather undignified manner, before putting it back down on the coffee table.

Lestrade grinned.

"As the man says, going on six years."

"The police force aiding and abetting the government," Sherlock mused, stuffing his own can down in between the sofa cushions in order to avoid suffering the same fate as Mycroft, "Quick John, fetch your gun. We have the beginnings of a fascist Britain sitting in our very living room."

"You want me to shoot your brother?" John scoffed.

""For the best of the nation John," Sherlock earnestly replied, "Queen and Country and... all that. I'm told it's important."

"Funny," John murmured, "I was told it was quaint."

"And dull," Mycroft remarked.

"That was then, this is now," Sherlock cried, "John! The gun!"

John, predictably, made no move to follow that particular order.

However mere logic had never gotten in the way of Sherlock and his sulking before, and it certainly didn't this time either. With his arms crossed tight over his chest, and a scowl on his face, he huffed, informed John that he was a traitor of the realm, before turning back to Mycroft and snapping once more, "So, what do you want?"

Mycroft sighed. This wasn't going to go down well when he was in a mood, even by 'Sherlock standards'. However he had a job to do and he, Mycroft, was nothing if not thorough and profession. As such he braced himself for the inevitable, (although, ultimately futile) rebuttal, and pressed on.

"I have a-"

"Not interested," Sherlock immediately announced.

Closing his eyes, Mycroft continued, "-case for you that-"

"I said I wasn't interested."

"-is of great importance, not only to England-"

"Don't try to appeal to John," Sherlock snapped, "I and we are not interested.

"-but Britain as a whole," Mycroft grumbled.

"Once more, I'm not interested," Sherlock announced, snatching up the violin that had been resting precariously on a pile of his newspaper clippings.

Mycroft winced pre-emptively but carried on nonetheless.

"I've handled all the paperwork for you-"

"Not for me," Sherlock snapped, jabbing his bow in Mycroft direction, "For you. Because I'm not involved, because I. Am. Not. Interested."

"I just need you to do some legwork," Mycroft sighed, "It's not even a considerable amount. I'll pay you handsomely for it."

"Not handsomely enough to change my mind," Sherlock all but sang.

"You've not got a case!" Mycroft cried.

"Precisely," Sherlock retorted, "I'm bored enough already."

"I rarely ask you for anything Sherlock!"

"And I ask you for nothing. Follow my example Brother, learn from it."

"Sherlock it would take you half a day, at most."

"Get one of your pet Gorillas to do it then," Sherlock replied, waving his hand dismissively.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft replied with forced calm, "I need this down quickly, quietly and efficiently."

Sherlock nodded solemnly.

"I see why the Gorillas are out."

"Sherlock!"

"Why don't you do it if it's so important?" Sherlock snapped.

"I can't," Mycroft argued, "I already have my hands full."

"You've got the day off tomorrow!"

"No, I'm not working tomorrow," Mycroft corrected, "Which you'd know, if you were even remotely self-sufficient and had a full-time job like the rest of the world, is certainly not the same thing as a day off."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Here we go," he sighed.

"First, City Hall is likely to call me in again in the morning, on top of that I have meetings with accountants, solicitors, my landlord, my bank – I have to do the grocery shopping and I need to clean up the flat because lord knows there's no other time to do it- need I go on?"

"Oh please do," Sherlock sarcastically replied with a roll of his eyes, "I have all day."

"Which is _exactly_my point!" Mycroft cried.

"Oh would you please stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"You're one to talk," Mycroft muttered.

Just as the 'domestic dispute' between brothers looked just about ready to get ugly (or rather, uglier) Lestrade heaved a loud sigh and announced, "If you want to work any of my cases for the next month or so Sherlock, I suggest you help your brother out."

Sherlock scowled.

"What's it to you Lestrade?" he snapped.

Lestrade shrugged.

"Think of it as... a display of patriotism."

Sherlock sniffed.

"Unbelievable."

"You do customarily introduce him as The British Government (TM)-"

"And the Secret Service," John added innocently.

"Oh and the CIA as well," Lestrade chuckled, ticking the supposed credentials off on his fingers, "If I didn't know better mate, I'd say you had a rather high opinion of your brother."

"Oh please," Sherlock scoffed.

"The condition still stands," Lestrade announced, taking a swig of his beer, "No cases until you act like a good brother for once."

To all appearances, Sherlock remained unmoved and utterly mutinous.

Mycroft sighed.

"I won't ask you for another favour for a month," he announced, "Unless it's an absolute emergency... by your standards even."

Sherlock frowned.

"Two months," he snapped.

"A month and a half."

"A month and three weeks."

"Deal," Mycroft sighed, holding out his hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock ignored it, although Mycroft didn't really expect anything less. He let it drop.

"Sherlock you're being rude again," John hissed.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement.

"I know. It was intentional."

"Sherlock!" John and Lestrade grumbled in reproach.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mycroft chuckled.

"I appreciate the effort gentlemen, but I believe that's just about as civil as my brother gets... with any real sincerity at least."

"What a depressing thought," Lestrade murmured.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Sociopath."

All present rolled their eyes, but it was Mycroft who spoke.

"Brother-Mine. You are a narcissist. A misanthrope and occasionally, simply a pest... but you are not a sociopath. I wish you would desist using that erroneous self-diagnosis as a party trick-"

"I don't use it as a party trick!"

"An excuse then. People tend to get the wrong impression."

"I don't care what-"

"Yes that much is clear," Mycroft drawled, effectively cutting Sherlock off mid-rant. And though that feat is as gratifying an accomplishment as any individual who counted themselves one of Sherlock Holmes' motley crew (like Mycroft reluctantly did) could hope for – the fallout was not all that dissimilar to that of an atomic bomb being dropped on top of an petrol refinery, conveniently located beside a dynamite manufacturer at the exact moment a truck containing nothing but fireworks drove by... or to put it simply, explosive.

As such, Mycroft did the wise thing, and fled.

"Gentlemen," he said, standing swiftly from his seat and grabbing his umbrella and coat, "It's been a pleasure, but I'm afraid I must be off. Thank you all for you assistance, recent and impending," he glanced at Sherlock, who was beginning to turn an alarming (yet satisfying) shade of purple, "Do enjoy your evening."

Lestrade clapped him on the back as he left (read: fled). John shouted instructions for him to 'bloody eat something and get some sleep!'. Sherlock lobbed his unto then abandoned can of beer at the door after him.

All in all, it went better than Mycroft could have hoped.

* * *

><p>Most children Mycroft had gone to school with used to dread the drive back to campus at the start of term. He believed that this was a common opinion amongst his fellow boarders, past and present.<p>

Mycroft though, had never really cared all that much about it. He hadn't liked school, not in the slightest. It was dull, strict and lonely. But he hadn't hated it so much that the mere drive back was an anxiety-ridden experience.

No – what he really used to dread, what used to tie his stomach in knots for days beforehand, was the drive back home. He used to feel really guilty about it. It wasn't like his parents beat him, or did anything really, to deserve that sort of reaction, and yet in spite of that, the mere thought of returning would, without fail, make him feel sick to his stomach.

The presenting of the report cards, in particular, caused many a sleepless nights. It was always the same. Oh how brilliant Sherrinford was doing at Oxford, we'd always know you'd do well love. And Sherlock too, he'd improved so much this year, we're so proud of you darling. And Mycroft did quite well again this year. Well done dear, but nobody's talked to you about advancing a year or two yet? No? Pity – perhaps next year sweetheart, if you try a little harder.

The mere memory of it still made him feel about three inches tall.

And then of course there was always that feeling of... not being entirely wanted there. That's not to say he wasn't welcome. He received just as many hugs and kisses as either of his brother's on arrival, it was just, nobody was really excited to see him.

You see, everyone was always thrilled to have Sherlock home, because he was just so entertaining with his theatrical re-enactments of events that had occurred throughout the year, and his derisive character studies and impersonations of the teachers, his peers, the ground-staff and all the relationships therein, never failed to entice a chuckle out of even the most stoic of relatives.

And then of course it was a relief to have him safe at home as he always had such trouble with the bullying and boredom of the school yard. No parent likes to see their child suffer. Certainly – Sherlock's return was always an anticipated and celebrated affair.

Likewise, Sherrinford's presence was a rare and therefore cherished thing. As such, he too was welcomed with open arms. Mother would hug him whenever they passed one another during his visits, as they were usually annual occasions, and father was constantly inviting him into 'The Office' for Brandy and a chat – man to man, 'Just for us grownups baby-brother' Sherrinford would say.

Mycroft couldn't contend with that. There was nothing that he could have done at school that his brothers hadn't already done first and better.

More often than not he'd just stay in his room, finish off his assignments and homework, get a head start for the year to come, and hope that somebody might come in and ask why he hadn't been about the house more. They never did.

Almost 30 years later and the drive back up to Buckinghamshire still made him feel ill.

Having said that, Mycroft much preferred the sedate welcome of his parents to the... intense experience that was his Sister-In-Law manning the front door.

"Mycroft darling!" she cried, flinging herself forward into Mycroft's arms, wrapping her own tight around his neck and refusing to let go, effectively suffocating him via strangulation and asphyxiation both.

He was quite convinced that she did not in fact need oxygen to breathe like the rest of the human race did, having systematically weaned herself off of the habit by applying an increasing amount of perfume throughout the years to the point where Mycroft was only half certain that she was not bathing in the substance. Suffice it to say he, who was not similarly blessed, was more than a little dizzy upon release.

"Oh those boys! Those boys!" she cried, pecking his cheek once, twice, three times, before finally (mercifully) stepping back so Mycroft could at least enjoy the illusion of personal space. "Those boys Mycroft!"

"They didn't behave themselves?" Mycroft asked, frowning.

"Didn't behave themselves?" Lydia trilled, slapping his chest reproachfully, "They were little angels love. Little angels."

Mycroft obligingly smiled in reply, although it was somewhat tight around the edges. Battology had always irritated him.

"More than enjoyed it sweetheart!" she replied, "We had a ball!"

"Oh that's good to hear," Mycroft replied, the tight smile becoming a touch more genuine.

She launched herself back at him again. He was just able to suppress his dismayed groan.

"Oh they are so lovely dear," she gushed, "Really, absolutely adorable. And so polite too."

"Yes, they are good boys," Mycroft murmured, although somewhat breathlessly.

"You must be itching to see them darling," she cried, before frowning and amending, "Although, I suppose you're used to spending time away from them aren't you? What with that demanding job of yours?"

Mycroft frowned.

"I still miss them," he insisted. Why did he insist? Why did he feel he needed to?

Lydia sighed.

"Oh and they miss you too darling," she replied, "The poor things have just been so grateful for our attention, the twins in particular. You'd think they were starved of affection sweetheart."

"They're not starved of affection," Mycroft assured through gritted teeth.

Lydia, as ever, didn't take the hint.

"Perhaps not by your standards sweetheart. But children need hugs and kisses and constant attention and... well, forgive me but – you're such a standoff-ish man Mycroft, aren't you? You don't really go for those sorts of things."

Mycroft's hand was starting to hurt where he was attempting to splinter the wood of his umbrella handle using brute strength alone.

Lydia still hadn't noticed. Perhaps it was because he was still smiling. It was probably because he was still smiling. Funny, he'd not noticed. Well old habits die hard. Best keep up the act now though.

Tilting his head slightly in acknowledgment (and still smiling) he assured his Sister-In-Law that he, "Always makes an exception for my sons in regards to that particular rule."

Lydia smiled, although Mycroft could tell she remained unconvinced. Quite frankly he didn't care how convinced she was. What he did care about was the fact that they'd still not moved from where she'd stopped before the staircase.

"So, where are the boys?" he gently asked, hoping to prod the conversation back on track.

Thankfully it worked.

"Oh this way love," Lydia cried, grabbing his hand once more (was that really necessary? He wasn't going to get lost. He grew up in the damn house for pity's sake) and leading him out to the backyard.

"Sherrinford's teaching them to play croquet," she explained, "I'd have never imagined he was so good with children."

"Croquet? Really?" Mycroft chuckled.

Lydia frowned.

"Yes. Really. There's nothing wrong with that is there?"

Mycroft laughed louder.

"I wouldn't give the twins mallets if my life depended on it," he replied, "In fact, one's life could well depend on that very decision. When was the last time you checked on Sherrinford?"

"Sherrinford is perfectly capable of handling the situation," she insisted primly, "He has such a way with them you see. It's quite lovely to watch."

Mycroft glanced heavenwards.

"I'm sure it is."

Finally, they reached the yard.

Mycroft frowned.

To be honest, in spite of all of Lydia's assurances to the contrary, he had been expecting a scene of complete carnage. The twins using their mallets as war hammers – possibly sporting blue face paint (god only knows where they find it) and claiming a Scottish heritage they don't have, ignoring all lectures regarding historical inaccuracies as the screamed at the top of their lungs that "You'll never take our FREEDOM!" (He blamed Sherlock's apathetic approach to babysitting for that particular habit) whilst Basil snuck off to retrieve his current book from whatever nook or cranny he'd stowed it away in, leaving his soon to be broken Uncle to the mercy of his brothers.

It had happened before. Mycroft was just grateful that he had never been particularly fond of golf to begin with, before the life ban and all. And the nightmares had lessened in frequency and severity over the years too.

The scene he _was_met with however, was far more unsettling that Braveheart re-enactments, abandonment and Avunculicide could ever hope to be. It probably shouldn't have been, but it was.

The boys… were doing exactly as they were told. They, well the twins, were gathered around Sherrinford, obediently and quietly watching as he demonstrated for them whilst Basil sat on the stone wall that separated the yard from the rest of the property's fields, dividing his attention between his novel and the cow that had lumbered up beside him. And there were no war cries or paint, no quiet abandonment in the midst of nightmare inducing anarchy – it, they… were behaving, co-operating… it was highly unsettling.

Had they been brainwashed? Were they ill? Or maybe-

"Ah Mycroft!" Sherrinford called, waving him over, "There you are."

"Daddy!" Harry and Alfie cried, sprinting across the lawn and all but tackling Mycroft to the ground in their enthusiasm.

Well at least that hadn't changed.

Chuckling fondly Mycroft crouched down so he was eye level with the pair and hugged each of them properly.

"I gather you had an enjoyable weekend," he laughed, affectively pushing away all his unease to dwell upon later.

Harry hummed approvingly, whilst he attached himself to Mycroft's side and refused to be moved.

"Uncle Sherrinford's just teaching us the rules at the moment," he announced.

"Then he's teaching us how to cheat," Alfie piped, grinning impishly.

Mycroft scoffed, stood with Harry still clinging determinedly to his side (thank goodness he inherited his mother's small stature) and turned to face his brother, quirking an amused brow.

"I'm shocked," he drawled.

"Well you oughtn't be," Sherrinford replied with a smirk, "I taught you all the tricks back when we were kids, didn't I?"

"I was taught?" Mycroft asked, "I distinctly remember picking those tricks up myself after being conned out of year's worth of pocket money, sweets, toys, my bedroom that one time…"

Sherrinford laughed.

"Yes, well – you learned didn't you," he gasped between chuckles, utterly unrepentant.

Shaking his head, Mycroft murmured, "Yes, I suppose I did," before turning to the boys, hugging Basil who'd, with a parting pat of the cow, made his way over as well, and asking, "Are you three packed and ready to go?"

"Do we have to?" Alfie whined, crossing his arms over his chest, "We were having fun here."

Well… that hurt a little more than Mycroft had been expecting.

He glanced over at Sherrinford who merely quirked a bemused brow before setting off to gather the now abandoned Croquet equipment, providing Mycroft and the boys with a little privacy.

Oddly considerate that.

Sighing, Mycroft dropped down to his knees before Alfie (although Harry's persisting to cling to him had made the task slightly more difficult than it needed to have been), stooping lower still until he finally succeeded in catching the boy's reluctant eye.

He smiled apologetically.

"I'm afraid we do have to leave, yes. You've got school tomorrow. And I've got work."

Alfie scowled.

"You've always 'got work'," he muttered bitterly.

Mycroft winced.

"I know I do Alfie. I'm sorry. I wish I could spend more time at home with you three, but just right now… there's nothing I can do about it son."

"Sure there isn't," Alfie grumbled.

"Alfred," Mycroft murmured, gently lifting the boys head with a crooked finger beneath his chin, "This isn't forever alright. I am trying to sort things out for us that's all – and it's going to take us time."

"Whatever," Alfie muttered.

Basil frowned down at his younger brother.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, "You're being ridiculous."

"Basil..."

"I'm not being ridiculous," Alfie hissed, "I'm just saying."

"Saying what?" Basil snapped.

Alfie shrugged.

"No come on. Saying what?" Basil growled, "You don't want to go home – is that it?"

"Basil," Mycroft warned again.

Alfie stuffed his hands moodily in his pockets and snapped, "I didn't say that."

"Well what are you saying? Because that's what it sounds like."

"I just-"

"Just what?"

"...I don't know."

"No you don't, do you?" Basil snapped, "Then perhaps you shouldn't open your mouth again until you do, because you're coming off as a traitorous little-"

"Alright that's enough," Mycroft called, "Basil, he didn't mean any harm. You know that."

"You don't need to mean harm to cause it," Basil grumbled, glaring pointedly at his younger brother who glared mutinously back (although he did spare Mycroft one guilty glance.)

Frowning, Mycroft turned to Alfie and murmured, "Alfie, I'm sorry, but we have to go soon, so could you and Harry please go fetch you bags. Basil, you stay here."

With one last fierce scowl at his big brother, and with fists balled at his side, Alfie stalked inside, closely followed by a reluctant Harry.

Basil stuffed his hands into his pockets, and turned to Mycroft.

"Basil... was that really necessary?"

Basil frowned down at the tips of his shoes..

"You're cross with me?"

"No, I'm not," Mycroft sighed, "That could have been much better handled though. I expect better from you."

Basil sniffed.

"He's being disloyal."

"Basil he's eight," Mycroft laughed incredulously, "His motivations may be a little selfish, but nothing more evil than that."

"He _was_being selfish though," Basil argued, "He needs to lear-"

"Basil... do you trust me?"

Basil blinked.

"What?"

"Do you trust me?" Mycroft repeated, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"I – yes, of course I do. You know I do."

Mycroft smiled.

"I'm glad to hear it. Now – seeing as you trust me, how about you let me do some of the parenting here, alright?"

Basil shifted from foot to foot.

"I'm just trying to help," he ground out.

"I know you are," Mycroft replied, "And I appreciate it. But you've got to let me do my job once in a while. Especially in regards to your brothers 'needing to learn' things. Alright?"

Basil sighed.

"Fine."

"Thank you," Mycroft sighed, ruffling his son's hair, "Now please go inside and fetch your bags and your brothers, apologise for snapping at Alfie, and come meet me by the car, and you're helping me clean the dishes tonight, alright?"

With a one final dutiful nod, Basil straightened his coat, spun on his heel and headed inside as well.

Mycroft smiled.

"That looked heated," Sherrinford called from the other side of the yard, "Everything alright?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied as he stood once more, and crossed the yard to join his brother and help him with the remaining equipment, "Nothing to worry about I assure you. Just the usual."

"The usual?"

Mycroft laughed.

"Basil playing dad. Alfie doing everything in his power to thwart his efforts. Harry and I watching from the sidelines. The usual."

Sherrinford chuckled.

"I see."

Mycroft sighed.

"You don't look any better rested," Sherrinford pointed out.

Mycroft shrugged.

"Emergency at work. I was stuck in City Hall until six yesterday – and then called back in until eleven this morning."

"Mycroft," Sherrinford scolded.

"I can hardly be held accountable for the incompetence of the Mayor and his office," Mycroft retorted, "At least the boys got to enjoy themselves this weekend. Thank you for that by the way. I really do appreciate it, and I'd say they do to."

Sherrinford smiled.

"It was a pleasure. They're great kids."

Mycroft smiled back.

"Thank you."

"We would love to have them again at some point," Sherrinford announced, "I dare say Lydia's grown rather attached-" Mycroft laughed, "And I've quite enjoyed spending time with them myself."

Mycroft smiled, and ignored the uneasy feeling once more.

"I'd have to talk it over with the boys first," he replied.

"Of course," Sherrinford replied, "Well it's a standing offer. So whenever you need some time to yourself. Give Lydia and I a call, alright?"

"Yes, alright," said Mycroft, glancing up at his older brother briefly, "Thank you Sherrinford."


End file.
